Cover Me
by wp1fan
Summary: "Are you naked?" Post-season finale. No real spoilers, just speculation. *Now Complete *Now M-Rated
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Okay, here I go again, having NO CLUE what I'm doing. This started with some random dialogue, then I ignored it, then I found myself typing again and again...and now I have a fic. Potential for more-I actually came up with a plot (Um, I use that term loosely) and there's potential for continuance. Again, I'm at your mercy. You say continue, I continue. You say, move on to something that makes sense, I say...yeah, I make no promises. ;-) You all are dear to my heart, seriously. Love the friends I've made so far.**

**This takes place _post-Season Finale_. I don't think there's spoilers, I've ignored blind items here (why would I do that?), and this is just me speculating.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Too bad.**

"Castle," she hisses and pokes his chest, pulls back and grips his forearm and shakes a little. Then a lot. "Wake up."

"Huh?" Kate watches as he bolts upright, sees his eyes widen, then lids lower, disoriented. Yeah, his head is swimming too. "Kate? Where? What are—? Are you _naked_?"

"I'm not naked." She pulls the sheet further up her chest, because uh, yeah,_ that_ is bare. But she regrets that instantly as it slides further off of him, revealing a thick, muscular thigh, and more of the chest she just nudged. She hasn't seen _any_ of him in, what, four months? Four months since he left her, ran away. And now she's seeing more of him than she's ever seen and hates the visceral reaction it has on her body. Damn him.

"You look pretty naked to me," he says plaintively. He raises the sheet and peeks down at his own body. He lowers the fabric and just sits there, expressionless.

"Well?"

"Boxers."

"Panties," she shares back. Only fair, right? Not completely naked. Good, good.

He moans a little and tries to cover it with a cough. The knowledge that he's still at least a little physically attracted to her pulls a flush to her chest. "Um."

"Don't ask because I have no idea."

"If we made love?" He looks at her guiltily, panic in his eyes, with something else there that she refuses to try to recognize.

"What? No! Where we are. I have no idea where we are." She shakes her head violently. "No, we didn't—why would you even ask that?" '_And_ _don't call it that'_, she wants to add.

He gives her a _'really?'_ expression and flicks his pointer finger up and down her sheet-covered body. "Yeah, I don't think so either, though," he breathes out, contradicts himself, before sinking back into the headboard, bouncing the bed a little.

"What makes you so sure?" Does he remember something she doesn't?

She's sure. Nothing happened. She hadn't really had time to think about it until he brought it up, made her heart start pounding, but she shifts around a little and, no, no they didn't—there'd be some…evidence and, yeah, she'd feel—but, he's a guy and _how_ does he—yeah, she doesn't even care. _They didn't_. That's the end of that.

"Just…I can tell. Wait, how do _you _know?" he asks, incredulously, eyebrow raised.

"It's been—I haven't—I just know. Too. Same as you. So, lose that train of thought." She can't very well say _Well, Castle, I haven't had sex in over a year and I'm pretty sure I'd remember if you were between my thighs. _Eh, she could, she supposes. Might be worth it to see the reaction. But, then if he has a heart or respiratory attack and they're locked in this room—better not.

"So, where are we and why are we naked?"

"Half-naked," she corrects.

"Semantics."

They both take a minute to look around the room. It's obviously a hotel room, pretty nice, but not quite. Everything is covered in clear plastic, the table and chairs shoved against the wall, small sofa, lamps, television and stand piled in the corner. A small sheen of drywall dust covers the top of the plastic. There are tubes of thick decorative wallpaper on the bare floor, giant rolls of plush carpet propped near them in the corner. The windows are blocked off by a large sheet of plywood, lending too much darkness to the room, only light coming from the cracked door of what she assumes is the bathroom.

"New construction somewhere, you think?" Castle asks her. She can see his mind tripping over scenarios that involve being targeted by CIA agents or abducted by aliens (_He'd better not say 'probed'. She has not been probed in any capacity._).

"Looks like it." That half-opened door is calling her name and she wants, needs to investigate.

"Hey," he protests, as she stands from the bed and whips the sheet off with her, casing her body in a sloppy toga-like wrap, leaving him nearly bare on the bed.

"I need this," she defends.

"I need it too. It's cold in here."

There's no other covers on the bed, she just notices. Too bad.

"Quit being a baby." She walks to the door and pushes it open slowly, wishing she had her gun to clear the room. God, if she had a gun now, she'd just have to drop the sheet to emulate a Nikki Heat cover come to life. Ugh.

"You find something?" She startles because he's _right_ behind her, breath against her bare shoulder. "Are our clothes in there?"

"Why would our clothes be in here?" She knows she's being bitchy, but she doesn't like this, having to be close to him again without practice, preparation, time to shove her feelings in the corner of her heart. She feels naked, and not just physically. To cope, she keeps her animosity and bitterness on the tip of her tongue and spits them at him to keep him at arm's length. That's the plan. That, and figuring out what the hell is going on here.

"Why is _that_ such a dumb question?" They're in the doorway and he's pressing against her, trying to herd them into the bathroom, excessively curious. _Arm's length_, her brain screams in reminder. Too too close.

"I don't know, Castle," she sighs and steps further in the bathroom, away from him. The bathroom is clear, no hidden alcoves or closets, not even a shower curtain hanging. Nothing, no help. "Just—just let me think."

He looks sorry, even though she's the one biting at him and it makes her feel a little guilty. He lifts himself up to sit on the vanity, tilts his head back with his eyes closed—probably theorizing again—and his legs swing against the cabinets beneath, jarring them a little with each kick. This is the first time she's actually allowed herself to look _(leer?)_ at him. He's wearing dark purple boxers, and damn if that isn't her favorite color. They look soft, maybe silky, she thinks, and she itches to touch them in examination. She mentally slaps herself out of her little underwear-molesting fantasy. "Hey, at least there's no tiger, right?" She offers him an iota of humor to take away some of the sting.

He opens his eyes and grins at her, then closes them again. "No cuffs either," he adds, as if disappointed.

She ignores that. "What the last thing you remember, Castle?"

"You…and bedsheets."

If he's trying to ruffle her feathers, it's working. "From_ last night_," she growls.

"Oh. Hmm." All innocence. Damn him. He's biting his lip and struggling to catch a memory now, she can tell. They're fluttering all around her mind, too. Nothing concrete. Thick, heavy flashes. "Party," he says, excitedly. "I was at a party."

Yes. "Detective Richards—"

"Retirement party. Yes. In the _hotel_ conference room," he adds slowly, accomplished, as if it's all making sense. Only none of it is really making sense.

"That still doesn't explain—"

"I noticed from outside, that a wing of the hotel is being remodeled. That must be where we are."

"Okay, we were obviously lured here. Someone took our clothes, phones(he winces at that, but keeps his mouth shut this time). Drugged us, maybe? Why? Why both of us? I didn't even see you at the party. Why were you there?"

"Ryan invited me," he huffs, offended. "And you did see me. I remember talking to you."

"We did?" She must be a little more out of it than him. She doesn't—oh, wait, yes, yes does remember seeing him, a flash of Lanie asking if she knew he was back in town, pushing her to talk to him. Instead she hid at the corner of the bar, where she could see, but not be seen. "What about?" '_Did we fight again?'_ is what she means.

"Not sure. Can't recall." He's squinting a little and his eyes are flicking back and forth, unfocused, struggling for another memory.

"You were wearing a blue shirt," she blurts, pleased at more remembrance.

"Huh. Don't remember that. Did I look sexy, at least?" He's straight faced, but his eyes are crinkling with a hidden grin.

She snubs his question, opens and shuts cabinets that she's already checked. It was stupid to even bring that up. What the hell does the color of his shirt have to do with their predicament? Nice going, Beckett. Off the record, she always finds him sexy. And hates it.

"Did you ever find me attractive, Kate?" There's no humor in his question now. Is he serious?

_Really? __You've got to be kidding me. _"I'm not dignifying that with a response."

"Don't look at me like that, like I know the answer. I don't. You can love someone and not find them attractive."

She groans. "I am _not_ talking about this."

"Of course you're not." He jumps down off of the vanity and walks out of the bathroom.

She follows.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you're allergic to talking about feelings. You run and hide or hole yourself up, away."

"Me?" she snorts. "I'm the runner? Who ran all the way to Europe for the summer?"

"You took a leave of absence, Kate. Didn't tell me. Just left. Scurried away, like you did last year. I didn't sit around this time because I know the result that garners. I'm experienced now."

"Castle—" That wasn't what she—damn it. He said he loved her and she said she loved him and they still managed to make a huge mess of it. They kissed, hot and hurried, and then they fought, angry passionate words thrown around, heavy in the air, then she left, satisfied only by the slam of his loft door behind her. She just needed a moment, tiny patch of time. "Rick, I—"

A series of loud bangs and shouts interrupts her, startles her. His eyes are wide, too. She sees the anger drain from him as he slides into defender mode, ushers her behind him as he creeps closer to the door.

He just stands and stares at it, plants his feet as though he's preparing for attack. He looks a little hot and a lot silly, posing, ready to fight in his underwear. She might laugh if the situation weren't so serious, unknown.

She moves around him and heads closer to the door. "Cover me." It's proof that he's concentrating hard on his potential fighting techniques when he misses the opportunity for a witty one-liner to her remark. Or he could still be pissed at her.

"What are you doing? That door's gotta be locked from the outside. Someone's not going to throw us in here and then let us just escape. That'd be an awfully crappy story—wait, what if it's booby-trapped or-." She tries the heavy handle, pushes it down and doesn't meet any resistance. She pulls and— "It's open." He narrates her actions. "No way."

He tries to peer over her head through the barely-there sliver that she's created, and she almost whacks him in the nose when she quickly shuts the door and leans back into it. "Shit."

"What? What is it?" He's whispering, still breathy from being shocked out of their argument.

"Cops."

**A/N: Feedback? **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Okay, here's Chapter 2. Your reviews and encouragement make me want to write. :-) Hopefully this will answer some of those questions. I'm not used to writing in non-linear fashion, so I'd appreciate knowing if I'm answering the questions you had from Chapter 1. There's potential Chapter 3 because I have more Castle/Beckett backstory on my mind. **

**This update was fast because I'm still in the hospital with my mom and this is quite boring. Don't expect more one-day miracles. But, I'll do what I can. I used to be superslow-you guys are making me faster. **

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Oh no.**

"Cops?"

"Yes. Down the corridor. I could see Esposito," she whispers, although no one is close enough to be able to hear them, let alone through the door.

"Wait, what are you doing then? This is our opportunity to get help." He reaches behind her for the door handle and she slaps his hand away, tugs on his fingers and pulls him further into the room.

"We're not dressed, Castle. You know that he's going to assume that we-" She releases his fingers like they are scalding her, tugging hard when he tries to keep them twisted together.

"Made love."

"Stop saying that."

"Why?"

"Because. Just…help me think." She shoots down his suggestive comment before it leaves his mouth. "Not about _that_."

"Gotcha." He's already thinking about _that_, has been for years. And with renewed vigor since the stormy day in his loft when in between secrets and declarations, she pushed him to his desk and let her tongue show him what an idiot misunderstandings had made of him. And then today,_ God today_, waking up to the swell of her breasts spilling just over the fabric of the sheet, hair tumbling down like some kind of Greek goddess sent to torture him from sleep.

He shakes himself out of his memories and fantasies (boy, they meld together so well) before he embarrasses himself. She's staring at him expectantly and he's not sure if she's been talking to him or not. All he hears is whooshing, his blood rushing to his ears. _Better than rushing elsewhere._ "Did you say something?"

"Just brainstorming."

"Hit me. Whatcha got?"

"Hide under the bed?" She winces at the idea, but still seems open to it.

"I'm game."

"But if they sweep the room, that'll look even worse," she talks herself out of it.

"Yeah, and kinky."

"Okay, that's out." She's rubbing her temples, trying to generate ideas or stave off a migraine, maybe both.

"What if you just go out there?" She throws it around like it's the best idea there is. Um, no.

"Uh, in case you've forgotten, I'm in my _underwear_."

"You could just say that you're with a woman…spent the night." She says it easily, nonchalantly, but won't meet his eyes. "Get us some clothes and sneak back in here. You're not modest."

"Esposito won't buy that. He knows there's no one else."

She meets his eyes now. "Just tell him she is…what's your preference, _French? Italian? German?..._and you were reminiscing about your European vacation." She's bitter, cutting into him again, but he's not going to turn his back on her like he wants to.

He clenches his jaw and feels the grind of his teeth. "_Book tour_, not a vacation. And there weren't any women, not like you're implying." _Just you_, he wants to scream, but she's not his, yet it all still feels like betrayal. Part of him wishes he could just take another woman; he's done meaningless before, and Lord knows he needs a release now, but he can't, won't, doesn't want to…all because he's in love with Kate.

A tiny beep indicating the lock's release is all the preparation they have, and it seems like slow motion when they freeze in the middle of the room as the door slowly swings open. Esposito and another man are talking as they enter the room, not paying much attention, obviously not expecting anything, having probably already been in a number of rooms and finding nothing.

"Whoa." Esposito stands in the doorway, eyes wide, roving over them.

"This is not what it looks like." Kate takes half a stride forward, looks poised to explain (_yeah, Kate, try it_). She throws and arm over her sheeted chest and slinks back to Castle's side.

"It never is."

Castle watches as the heavy-set, balding man standing with Esposito comically juggles the keycard, then bends down to pick it up, which takes longer than necessary because his eyes never leave Kate. Castle clears his throat, thins his mouth into a frown, and steps in front of her. Esposito purses his lips to conceal his smile, then eyes Castle up and down and raises a brow at his boxers. "Pretty man-panties, dude."

"Shut up," Castle grumbles, suddenly modest. Yeah, they totally should have crawled under the bed.

"Hey, man, I got this now. Thanks." The Latin detective ushers the older gentleman out the door and points down the hallway. "Remember the pretty lady I was talking with earlier? Can you see if you can find her and let her know that I found what we were looking for?" Castle watches the man, still dazed_ (Geez, it wasn't like they were doing it)_ nod enthusiastically and begin to shuffle down the corridor. Esposito shuts the door behind him, then saunters around the room a bit, acts blasé as he skims his finger along the dusty plastic while he walks. "So."

"We don't know what happened," Castle promises, guiltily. Damn if he doesn't feel like he's being interrogated and the Detective has only said one word.

"You were drugged."

Kate sighs, still behind him. He feels her knees graze his calves as she plops back down on the bed. "We figured. We're symptomatic."

"And naked," Espo includes.

Kate has acquired some God-given patience (he'll take some of the credit for that _thankyouverymuch_) and ignores him to forge ahead. "Do you know who did it?"

"The bartender."

Castle wracks his brain to get a picture of the man in his head, to no avail. He hates having parts of the puzzle missing, and right now it feels like he's just built the outer shell with the corner pieces and is waiting for the essential stuff to click into place. He just watches as Kate and Esposito hash this out; he wants to take notes, but doesn't have paper or his phone.

"Access through our drinks then, I'm assuming? What did he use?"

"Benzodiazeptides."

"Rohypnol?" Kate inquires. Some of this medical jargon goes over his head, but he's heard that one before.

"Probably. Amongst others. He had quite the cocktail on his person."

"I don't get it. Why?"

"He was stealing purses and wallets, jewelry, you name it."

"Phones," Castle adds.

"I guess." Esposito shrugs. Kate rolls her eyes. "Apparently he watched and once they got loopy enough, passed out, whatever, he'd strike, quick and painless for the most part."

"For the most part?"

"He hit a ninety year old lady. Too large of a dose. Massive heart attack."

"Damn," Castle adds. They were lucky, then. "Why were we different? Why take our clothes?"

"He didn't take your clothes, Bro."

"Obviously he did." Beckett adds. "And our phones," she includes before Castle has the chance.

"We found all of your belongings in the room next door."

"Weird."

"Uh huh."

"What, Espo? What are you not saying?" Kate interrupts, because yeah, he's hiding something.

"Ryan's got Edwards—the bartender—in custody. Asked him to try to remember how many people he drugged." Castle's leaning forward, interested in where this is going. Esposito is a good story-teller, nice pace.

"And?"

"Six. He remembered them all. The deceased, a young couple, an older gentleman, and you two. The other three thought they had food poisoning, went to the hospital for treatment. He was doing CPR on the deceased when we found him. Admitted everything."

"How'd you know we were the other two he referred to?"

"Said you were bickering, but making goo-goo eyes at each other, knew what you were wearing. Lanie's the one who figured it out." Kate tries to interject, but Esposito keeps going. "Ryan pulled surveillance video of the conference room and lobby. And the entertainment commenced," he smiles.

"What's that mean?" Wow, they really do manage to get into some messes, don't they?

"Means that we needed some popcorn for the show." Lanie is standing in the doorway, hands on hips and wry, too wry, grin on her face.

"What show?" He didn't want to ask, but the question was just lingering in the air, waiting for someone to jerk it down. He sits down on the bed next to Kate and if she's upset by that she doesn't show it. This whole situation is awkward enough that their thighs and shoulders pressing together seems insignificant.

Lanie clicks the door shut and saunters towards them, on a mission, stops in front of Kate. "Let's see, which side was it?" Kate's eyeing her suspiciously, but Lanie gives the look right back, wins, and Kate looks like she wants to cover her head with the sheet. "Right about here, I think." Castle watches as she peels the starched white fabric back from Kate's shoulder and he, instinctively, wants to cover her back up—she looks uncomfortable. "Ah, there it is. I suspected you'd have one." Castle's breath catches as he sees the purple, mouth-sized bruise on her collarbone. Beckett can't see it, but when she presses her fingers to it, she must feel the sting, know what it is. He watches as she closes her eyes and swallows a groan, then pulls the sheet back over her shoulder.

Oh my God, he wants that memory back, stat. Oh my God, she's going to kill him.

But she doesn't look angry, looks confused, wounded, pained.

Lanie continues, rubbing the salt in those wounds. "We didn't have video past the lobby, but that was enough to know that you two were together."

"Why were our clothes in another room?" Castle asks, trying to fill in the gaps. "Why did we end up in here?"

"Hotel manager said this is the only room in the remodeled wing that has a bed. If construction runs late, the foreman sometimes sleeps here through the week."

"God, Lanie, how would I not remember that we-?" She lets the words trail off, and Castle's pretty sure that she's already forgotten that he and Esposito are still in the room. His heart lurches into his throat, beats there, closing it off, suffocating him.

"Made love?" Lanie finishes for her and Kate groans even more loudly. Yes, he could have warned her-. "Oh, baby, you probably didn't."

"What?"

"Do you think you did?"

Kate looks from him to Esposito, then back to Lanie. "Castle and I talked about this, and no. Neither one of us thought that anything happened."

"Well, a little sumptin' happened, but probably not the really good stuff." Lanie taps Kate's knee with her own and Castle relaxes when Kate looks a little less anxious. "Our boy over here," Lanie tilts her head towards Castle. "would have a really hard time groovin' with all those drugs in his system."

"Hey," he draws out in weak offense. He's relieved, but feels like his manhood should be defended.

"I can do a kit if you want confirmation one way or another."

"No." Kate answers quickly and he's soothed by it. "It's not—it wouldn't be the end of the world if it happened." Lanie's nodding her head slowly, speaking some non-verbal language with Kate. He needs a translator. "It would have been consensual."

_Oh._

**A/N: Feedback is like crack. But, since I don't do crack, I'll compare it to bread pudding or chimichangas. :-) Wanna give me some?**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This is it, folks. I feel so repetitive thanking you all for the well-wishes, reviews, etc, but I am still very much in awe and appreciate each of you so much. I had a harder time with this chapter. It didn't want to end. It is M-rated.**

**Also, mom is out of the hospital! Thanks for the prayers. **

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Even as an only child, I'm good at sharing. **

**00000000000000000000**

"Alright, I don't think there's any permanent damage. Nothing that wasn't already there, that is." Lanie stands from her squatting position near the bed, puts her pen light away, and taps Castle on the head in tandem with her later comment. Esposito snickers from across the room, where he's pulled the plastic from the small sofa and propped himself comfily upon it.

"Ha ha," Castle drolls. "Comedians, the both of you."

"Honey, someone has to add some levity here. You two are sitting here morose, like someone kicked your puppies. So, you got frisky and don't remember it? That's me every time I drink vodka." Esposito eyes her deviously. "If you think it might have been something worth remembering, _do it again_. Problem solved," she adds, simply.

"Lanie," Kate warns.

"Shut it. If you two would have jumped into this like normal people—when you first realized that you wanted to—you'd probably have obscenely adorable little holy terrors by now." Castle feels Kate shudder beside him and wonders if it's revulsion to the idea of having children or realization that she's missing out on it. "You two can choose to make this as complicated as you want, but all you're doing is wasting time. Take the leap together or let each other go, cause this is just getting painful to watch. Come on, Javi." He jumps from his lounging position and follows Lanie to the door, casting Beckett and Castle a sympathetic glance as they exit.

The click of the closing door echoes in the otherwise still room.

"I wish Lanie wouldn't hold back. You know, she needs to work on saying what she really means." He says, stoic. Kate huffs a laugh beside him and it makes him grin a little, turn to face her on the bed. "You're beautiful when you do that."

"Snort?" She shakes her head, brushing off the compliment.

"Your word choice, not mine. But, yes, anything that-" He takes his thumbs and runs them along her lips, tugging up at the corners, forcing a manmade smile. "-makes you do this. So stunning."

"Rick-," she breathes his name, and when her mouth parts, his thumb slips inside, grazes past her teeth to the warm heat of her tongue. She flattens a palm to his bare chest over his heart and closes her lips and eyes simultaneously, sucking lightly on the digit. When he groans, her lids shoot open and she jerks back from him and the moment.

"Sorry." He watches her slide to the corner of the mattress, further away. She told Lanie that if they would have had sex, it would have been consensual, but what does that even mean—just that he didn't force himself upon her? Or that she wanted, wants him too? He curses his necessity to push, but damn if he doesn't need her and he's so so tired of ignoring it. Now he's stuck trying to tame down his growing arousal, shifts on the bed and crosses his legs, and this is one time he wishes she'd run from him—just to give him a minute to compose himself. Geez, she sucks on his thumb and his body reacts like she was—_okay, not helping._

"Esposito said he'd bring our clothes, but I think he forgot. He said they're just in the room next door. Do you think you can sneak over and grab them?" She's still not looking at him, he can tell by the way her voice is muffled, but that's okay because he's not looking at her either.

"You're gonna have to give me a minute." His voice is strained, he knows, can't help it, and that's what must draw her attention back to him.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Just," he does a shooing motion towards the bathroom. "-just go in there for a second."

"Why?" She stands up and for a moment he thinks she's obliging, but she's scrutinizing him, eyeing him up and down, and oh, oh that's even worse. "Are you hurt?"

"In a manner of speaking. Bathroom, Beckett." He uncrosses his legs because he's cutting off circulation to vital parts, and he curls into himself, elbows on knees.

"What are you—_oh._"

"Yeah, oh." He rolls his eyes, a little annoyed at himself, his masochism, damn if this humiliation isn't still totally turning him on, and annoyed at her for not listening to him and because she's totally _staring_ now. "Kate," he reprimands.

"Did I do that to you?"

_Seriously?_

"You, my vexatious biology, and active imagination, yes," he grumbles. She's probably totally thinking he's a horny pervert. _Well... _ He's straining against his boxers and this is totally awkward and should be the bucket of ice water he needs, but it's not working. Ah, water, yes. "Actually, _I'll_ take the bathroom."

**00000000000000000000**

He's been in the bathroom for twenty minutes and she can still hear the shower running. She crept into the room next door to grab their clothes (thankfully the door was open and she just ducked under the crime scene tape, unnoticed), and she's been pacing in this room again for the past fifteen minutes, waiting for him to come out. She's contemplated throwing her dress back on and high-tailing it out of there, but for reasons unbeknownst to her, she chooses to sit on the bed—still cloaked in a sheet—and clasp on her father's watch. She stares at it, hypnotized, as she gazes at the hands spinning in slow circles.

Five more minutes pass and she's getting antsy. Surely if he fell she would have heard it, right? She doesn't care, that's the excuse she's using—she's just checking to make sure he's not injured, crippled, drowning, whatever.

She pushes the door open and the steam takes her breath for an instant, the fine hot mist floats against her skin, raising the hair on her arms. She just stands there because, what the hell is she doing? _Hi Castle, I just wanted to make sure you had the situation in hand._ She mentally groans at the double entendre her mind conjures up. She's pretty sure he's not…he wouldn't…not with her just a room away, right? She's starting to regret coming in here—she's just going to make sure he's not dead, then she's leaving, going home. This is not a good idea.

She doesn't have to say anything; as she steps closer to the shower stall she can see his blurry outline, palms and forehead pressed against the frosted glass, so still. That should be enough. This is when she should turn around and walk away. But, she can't. Because even though he's not heaped at the bottom of the shower, he's still not okay.

She quietly puts the lid of the toilet down and sits, pulling a knee to her chest to rest her chin upon. She watches him, feels voyeuristic; she can only see the skeleton of his nude form, but she knows what's there in theory, what he was hiding from her—his want. Arousal slinks through her body, rich and heavy, betrays her. Always with him, it makes her feel fragile and she hates it, hates that she's powerless to it, forced to let it overtake her—head to toe it burns with no relief.

She sees his shadow move behind the door, stand upright and still, and she realizes that he now knows she's there, feels the atmosphere of the small room shift.

"Why did you go to Europe?" She whispers it, wonders if he can hear her over the water when he doesn't answer for long moments.

"Book tour. You know that." His voice is hoarse, painful to her ears.

"You also complained about that very tour months ago and said you had gotten out of it," she accuses, remembering very vividly him saying he had no real interest going to Europe, and that Paula wasn't happy, but compromised that he'd do additional cities in the states. He amended, with a sly grin, that he might change his mind if she wanted to spend a summer exploring some nude beaches with him. The not-really-an-invite-but-not-really-_not _hung heavy in the air between them until she responded with a _'You wish_' and a wink and broke the tension.

"I had a reason to not want to go then. I didn't anymore."

"What reason?"

"You know what my reason was."

"I wish that I had the psychic powers that you burden me with. What changed?"

"You left, Kate," he spits, angrily, voice booming in the small room.

She flinches. "I left your loft, not the damn country."

"You left the _precinct_. I had to find out from Esposito that you took a leave of absence. You severed the only connection that I have you to. What was I supposed to assume that meant?" She can see his outline pacing the few feet that he's able to in the confined space of the shower.

"I killed the man who shot me, Castle. It was just like Coonan all over again, spilling blood instead of answers." She drops her head in her hands as she relives the still too-fresh memory. Then you let me kiss you, love you, and what, your guilty conscience kicks in?" Even over the spray she hears him take a deep breath to speak, but she keeps talking, drowning him out. "You show me a murder board, tell me that you've been investigating for a year without me. Then you leave me to push buttons on a remote, cycle through horrible memories while you take a phone call from a mystery man on a burner phone, who only hands us more questions. And I needed a little bit of time to process it and that's not okay? Damn it, Castle, how is that fair?"

"I wanted to help you, Kate. Do this for you, with you. I just wanted to be there." He smacks his hand on the glass and it startles her.

"I came back to you," she confesses, and it hurts, hurts that they manage to screw everything up. Always.

"What?"

"I came back to your loft the next night, but you were already gone. Martha said your flight left that afternoon."

"She didn't tell me. Why didn't she tell me?"

"I asked her not to."

"Why? Why did you come, Kate?" He slides the shower door open just enough that she can see his head and a shoulder, dripping; he leans both against the tile and stares at her.

"I was going to ask you to take me to the Hamptons, to give me what I wanted you to give me two years ago." He blinks, eyes as heavy as her heart, weighed down. "I was going to ask you to make love to me." He takes a stuttering breath and she gives him a sad smile. "But you weren't there. And then I realized this wasn't one of your books, we're not characters on a page, all romance and happy endings. Sometimes it's just not meant to be. _Making love_, what does that even mean, really? It's just a euphemism for sex, cordial and pretty. A fantasy."

"No, you're wrong."

"Maybe. I wouldn't know."

"I want to show you the difference." There is want in his eyes, of course there is, but there's something else there…deep, raw tenderness. Love.

She stands up and sees the claws of panic scrape down his face; he thinks she's leaving. He backs away, out of her sight and further into the solitude of the shower, giving up.

When she slides the door open, he's not facing her. He's in the midst of the stream, one hand bracing him against the shower wall while the other is laced through his hair, holding it back to let the water pelt him in the face.

"Show me." When he whips around, she's standing just outside of the shower. She takes the sheet that she's wrapped in and loosens it at her shoulder. It drops to her feet, and she feels the chill of the room against her back and the warmth of the shower and him beckoning her forward. She steps in. "Show me the difference."

The next instant, his mouth is on hers, hot and hungry, taking taking taking anything she'll give. She can feel his anxiety in the way he jerks her to him with trembling hands, but still holds her a little away, forearms clutched tightly as if he can't bear to let her go again, but scared for her to be too close, afraid she'll leave at any moment.

"I'm not leaving."

He nods and meets her eyes, tiny beads of water dripping from his lashes. They remind her of tears and she swipes at them, closing his lids with her fingertips. She then pushes him further into the spray so she can follow, switch positions with him and pull him back to her. The water slicks through the infinitesimal space between them and she's crowded against the tile and so close to his body, and she can feel him hard between them, insistently pressed to her belly. She lurches forward, shifts upon her toes to reach his mouth fully, pulls at his lips and slides her tongue between them. He grips her skull in his wide palm, tilts her head and deepens their kiss. "God, Kate."

"I love you," she says. It isn't the first time, but she doesn't want it to be the last.

"You sure?" He licks down her neck, slides his tongue to her shoulder, and she feels the delicious prickle of pain when his mouth covers the bruise he provided earlier.

"Trying to change my mind?"

"Just making sure I'm not holding you against your will," he murmurs against the swell of her breast, working lower.

"Nope. You're holding me against the _wall_." His laugh reverberates against her nipple, sending a shiver down her entire body despite the warmth of the deluge surrounding them. "You're killing me, Castle."

"Turnabout. Years and years of cold showers."

"This water's hot."

"Did cold first. Moot point now, though." She runs her hands down his back and lower and his hips pitch against her, proving his point solidly.

She reaches between them and flits her fingers against him, curling her palm around—"

"Yo, Castle? Beckett?"

**00000000000000000000**

Castle grunts and his knees buckle, a double dose of frustration paralyzing him. There's nowhere to run, so as he hears a hard rap on the bathroom door and Esposito's voice more clearly, he pushes Beckett behind him, preserving any modesty that may be taken from her through the milky glass. "Hey-oh shit. Are you both in there?"

"Esposito," Castle admonishes.

Kate scrapes her nails down his back and runs her mouth along his shoulder blade and, _ohmyword_, she's such a hot, vindictive woman.

"No, no don't answer that. I'll pretend that I don't know you're both in there, so I won't have to claw my eyes out. Um, I was just making sure that you got your clothes, but you know what, I don't care. Looks like you don't either. By the way, I'm_ so_ telling Lanie."

Castle hears the bathroom door, then the hotel room door slam within seconds of one another.

"I can't believe you think that's humorous. I'm disturbed." Castle turns to her and tastes her smile and laces his fingers in hers.

"You're all pruney."

"I'm what?"

"Your fingers. You've been in here too long." She presses his digits to her lips and it tingles a little where her tongue touches his rutted skin.

"If you commit a crime with wrinkled hands-," he wiggles his fingers at her as she turns the water off and opens the shower door "-do your fingerprints change?"

"Are you seriously thinking about that _right now_?"

"Could be the perfect crime, Kate." She looks at him like he's loony and sexy. He wants to focus a little more on the sexy part. "In print. Make us millions."

"You can ask Lanie. Later. While she's interrogating you." She takes his hand and tugs him backwards through the doorway and into the main room. They're naked and sopping wet and he's pretty sure he should be modest here, but he can't conjure up the strength.

"Nuh uh. Lanie scares me."

"Well, if she thinks you're making me happy, you'll be fine." He meets her eyes and there's love there, but also a deep, burning fire of arousal. "Make me happy."

"That's a lot of pressure, Beckett."

"Think you're up for it?" There's seriousness laced in her humor, and that's okay because he's absolutely going to make her happy, spend his whole life doing it.

"Good thing for you that I do my best work under pressure."

"Best work, huh?" She's smiling and gloriously nude and only _his_. She's staring at him like she's claiming him right back. It's finally really settling in what they're about to do, claim one another.

God, he wants it to be good for her, great even, but he'll take good. Page Six is his best friend when he wants to sell books, but damn if they don't exaggerate every single aspect of his personal life. Even in the past year plus, when there's been no one else in his bed, in his heart, leave it to the media to totally contradict that. One on occasion, they even snapped a picture of him with a suspect at a crime scene, touted her as inspiration for his next series of books. Hilarious lies. Kate actually came to him with that one, laughed with him, relief in her eyes, and he wondered then if that meant that she finally realized that what they printed usually wasn't true. He just hopes she has the presence of mind to realize that the _complimentary_ rumors were exaggerations too.

"Stop thinking so much," she skims her fingers between his furrowed brows and slicks her lips quickly against his.

"Can't help it. You love me for my mind. Can't go cursing it now." He attempts to intensify the kiss, but she backs away from him.

"You know, that whole 'making me happy' thing isn't dependent on how _this_ goes." He watches as she slips onto the bed, soft weight of her dipping the mattress. "The two aren't mutually exclusive." She crooks her finger for him to follow and his legs are moving before he even gives them permission. She's up on her knees waiting to hook her arms around his neck when his final stride brings him to her.

**00000000000000000000**

She tugs him down on top of her and his chest is scalding, melting her further down into the mattress. He feathers a hand from her hip to her knee, curls inside—a detour—a slow burn up her inner thigh. The heat is making her shiver, the fire freezing her still, immobile as he comes so close to where she needs him.

"No no," she breathes out in a whoosh, grabbing his wrist and bringing it to her stomach to still his progress. She doesn't need…—she's already…—she just wants…-. "I'm ready now. Want you."

**00000000000000000000**

He obliges because, _how can he not_? Her eyes are barely slits, mouth is open in tiny pants and he hasn't even touched her—not really—yet. This is amazing, and she's _so_ gonna regret not letting him touch her, because no amount of self-control and practice pretending he doesn't want her is going to make this last more than a millisecond. He'll make it up to her later.

He nudges her knees apart and his body sinks between them. She crowds her hips to his, moving, sliding, seeking, and she'd better stop it or that millisecond might be generous. She leans up and kisses him, a plea with her mouth, then her voice. "_Please_, now."

He begins his descent into her, and his name is powerful on her tongue, startling his eyes to hers. Hers go wide and he feels her fluttering around him and _oh_, did she just-? The feeling of her tight, tight, tight is too much and the weight of his body drops to hers, sheathing him in one quick motion. "Sorry, sorry," he pants and the muscles in his thighs are flexing and screaming because he _needs_ to move.

"S'good," she manages to get out against his neck. "Pressure's off," she adds, half laugh, half sob at his shoulder.

She's smiling shyly when he cranes his neck away from where she has it tugged to hers, holding him down. He tries to give her a smug grin, but he's sure it comes off looking more like wonderment because that's totally what he's feeling.

She wraps a leg around his waist and he takes that as her urging him to move. He does, on a long, deep stroke and he's already forced to take gasping breaths. He's keeping his pace as slow and steady as he can manage, but her hips are beginning to crash up into his, testing his resolve.

He's losing his train of thought, his coordination. Her hands influencing his momentum are making him clumsy, his thrusts disjointed and out of rhythm. "Kate, you're totally distracting me."

"Mm hmm," she hums the affirmative against his jaw, doesn't quite seem bothered by it. "Let go."

"You first."

"Did."

"Again." He feels her sudden, clenching grasp around him once more, and he can't hold back any longer. His body seizes and holds and he grunts into her neck, teeth finding purchase there. "Love you," he soothes into the flesh.

**00000000000000000000**

When he comes out of the bathroom, she's on her hands and knees beside the bed, dress hiked up so she's not kneeling on it, and her head is halfway under the bedframe. He clears his throat and raises an amused questioning eyebrow. "I lost a shoe. Somewhere," she explains with a shrug, sighing and lifting herself back to her feet, empty-handed.

"Huh. Well, I lost some buttons," he smiles and gestures to the open ends of his shirt, fingers gliding down the material to where two of the middle buttons are missing. "Wonder how that happened?" he muses innocently.

"Don't look at me." She's glowering, but there's humor shrouded behind it. She stalks up to him and he flinches a bit until she takes the ends of his shirt in hand and begins at the bottom, slipping each remaining button slowly through its partnering loop. "I don't think I'd be that desperate to get you naked," she teases.

"You wanted me bad, I bet." Castle leans into her space and smooths his lips against her neck, opens them when he reaches her ear, nips at the lobe, tugs it in to meet his tongue.

"Eh," she breathes out, but even the one syllable comes out shaky, which spurs him on. "Party was probably boring."

"Yeah, that was probably it. For me too. Boredom." His fingers are at her thigh, toying with the fabric of her dress (_and it's absolutely hot; how does he not remember it?)_, barely skimming the skin beneath. She's sliding her fingers in the plackets of his shirt and he's toying with her, but yeah this is totally doing it for him. "I'm, actually, quite bored again now, I think. Bored stiff."

She throws her head back in laughter and pushes him away, slapping him on the chest. "That was horrible." She tiptoes up and in to take his mouth, too swiftly for his liking. "I wanna go." She bends to pick up the one shoe she found and leads him by a shirt tail to the door.

He watches as she spins, surveys the room a final time, pausing her eyes at the fabric pooled at the foot of the bed. "I'm going to miss that sheet. Comfy stuff."

He palms the fabric currently clinging to her, eases his hands from shoulder to hip and back, hauling her to him in the process. "Ya know, I've got some thousand thread-count at home, just waiting on a girl like you to slip into them."

"Show me."

**00000000000000000000**

Whew. I don't know why this one was so tough for me. I think it was trying to mix the angst and humor and...them that was so difficult. Hope I did them justice and that you enjoyed it. Feedback?


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